The greying, diminutive man first appeared just days after we moved into our new house in the suburbs. The early-morning knocks on the gate with a shade of authority first annoyed me and then, after a second look, the short chubby-faced man in his olive shirt with shoulder flaps kindled my curiosity. In January 2004, I had then returned from military service and was just about settling into our new neighbourhood.
“Sir, I am the gurkha of this area,” he introduced himself in a heavy Malayalam accent.
“Good,” I replied expressing my delight, in chaste Hindi, and the man was overjoyed. We soon found ourselves striking up a little conversation and the affable stranger reassured me the locality I had chosen was safe and peaceful. He said his roots were in a mountain-village in Nepal and his father, who was a “batman” to a British officer, first came to Malabar during the colonial era. He said he didn’t have any fixed fee, but contributions from residents helped keep his family afloat in a shack.
As soon as the man left, one of my neighbours called me aside to say, “This man is a fraud. He goes all around the city and claims he is the guard of each locality. The night before he comes for his monthly collection he turns up here and makes some noises.”
I had earlier noticed the “gurkha” skipping the gentleman’s house. In fact, my alert neighbour’s timely warning was spot on. Soon, I started noticing the man in different parts of the city. Once in a while, we would “hear” his visitation, his high-pitched whistle in the dead of the night, his “lathi” knock (he never carried the traditional Kukri) on asphalt, and the next morning you are sure of seeing him at your door. Once I did question him about this. “It is true that I cover a large area. Then, residents give me only a pittance. But don’t worry sir, I make surprise visits and you know the miscreants fear this unpredictability.”
The man showed up for years with his customary greeting and on occasions with news on burglaries that always happened outside his territory. Somewhere around the COVID-19 outbreak, he stopped popping up. Then his absenteeism was a non-event when the world at large was in the doldrums. A few days ago, I heard the doorbell ringing and I saw a boy hardly out of his teens in a “gurkha” uniform. “My father used to come here.” He had a better command of Malayalam.
“Where is your father?”
“He is no more. We had been to our village in Nepal. My father died there.”
A jolt and then silence! I go inside and come back with my regular contribution. The boy salutes and departs. I stand watching him going out nonchalantly; the baton passes on.
harichitrakootam@yahoo.com
